“You lead by example,” he says. “On the ice. And off it.”
His eyes linger just long enough to make sure it lands, then he turns and heads toward the tunnel, barking at someone to tape faster.
I stand there a second longer than necessary, resistance band slack in my hands, the echo of his words settling deep.
On and off the ice.
Chapter Twenty
Connor
Practice winds down the way it always does, but the noise drains out faster than usual. By the time I finish showering, most of the guys are already gone, footsteps echoing down the hallway toward the parking lot and laughter fading into the cold outside.
Even Coach is gone.
That’swhen the Icebox changes.
Without the bodies, without the noise, it feels bigger, and emptier. Every sound carries—the scrape of my boots on concrete, the hum of the lights overhead, even the distant tick of old pipes cooling down. It’s the kind of quiet that makes you aware of yourself in it.
I should head out.
Instead, I circle back.
The PT room door is half-open, a stripe of warm light spilling across the hallway floor. Inside, Emery moves with that same controlled efficiency she brings to everything—wiping down thetable, lining up resistance bands by color, and stacking her clipboard and notes like she’s corralling the day into something manageable. The thought makes me smile a little.
Her jacket’s already on, and her bag slung over one shoulder. Every detail saysleaving, but I stop at the threshold anyway.
I knock once, even though the sound feels unnecessary in the quiet.
“Oh.” Her voice is steady, but there’s something thin under it as she looks up at me. “Connor.”
“Hey.” I lean against the doorframe. “Was just leaving, but wanted to check in. Everything okay?”
For a second, she looks like she’s deciding how honest she can afford to be.
“Yeah,” she says finally. “Just packing up.”
“Long day?” I ask, stepping inside.
The door clicks shut behind me, and her gaze flicks over me automatically; analyzing my posture, stance, and breathing. She catches herself a beat too late, just as I lean back against the counter, arms folding loosely.
It’s all innocent enough. I’m not here for anything. Not really.
But then it hits me.
Her scent iseverywhere—soaked into the table, clinging to the air, and threaded through the room like it’s been building all day with nowhere to go. It’s sweet, and clean, and unmistakably omega; but it’s louder than it should be. Frayed at the edges.
Strained.
My chest tightens before my brain catches up.
“My ribs are fine,” I say quickly, giving her the answer before she can ask. “Promise.”
“Good.” She zips her bag, a touch too sharply. “So… what’s up?”
I should keep it light. Imeantto keep it light.
Instead, I breathe in again.
